Grey Matter Russian Roulette: A Collection of iZombie Oneshots
by SmilinStar
Summary: Case #12079 (or The one with Mr Singer-Songwriter Extraordinaire) - The first few strums of the guitar resonate through the air, and cautiously he thinks, so far so good. She can play, at least. That's something.
1. Case 10043 - Miss Cries-a-lot

**Grey Matter Russian Roulette: A Collection of iZombie Oneshots**

 **Case #10043 (or The one with Miss Cries-a-lot)**

 **Fandom:** iZombie

 **Rating:** PG-13

 **Pairing:** Liv Moore/Ravi Chakrabarti

 **Summary:** He sighs, stepping into the room, grabbing hold of his lab coat as he does, "I see brain of the week is a real Debbie Downer, haven't had one of those yet." "Yeah," she says, "She's a real barrel of laughs."

 **Author's Note:** The lack of iZombie and Ravioli fic was making me sad, so I've resorted to writing my own. I'm still getting a feel for the characters but I hope this isn't too terrible because I've got the iZombie bug and would really love to write more for them.

* * *

 **Case #10043, MW**

 **Cause of Death:** Massive internal haemorrhage

* * *

Twenty-two year old Marcia Williams breathes her last under the screech of rubber tyres going seventy miles per hour.

She doesn't see it coming.

And the driver doesn't stop.

She dies bleeding out in the middle of the road, panicked strangers swarming around her, uselessly flapping about and screaming incoherent orders.

Her eyes slip close and never open again.

Marcia Williams dies completely alone.

And all Liv is left with is nothing but random memories triggered by the most unexpected of things and a personality trait that marinates in her insecurities and loves to ruminate on her failures. Her complete inability to help Clive solve this particular case takes front and centre stage.

She sits there on the cold steel stool and stares at the remains of the corpse that supplied her last meal.

It's a strange mix of emotions.

Sadness for the woman in front of her who never really got to live a life. Still studying, always pushing for more from herself, still waiting for her life to happen. And it's all intricately wrapped up with those same feelings projected back on herself.

Her failed relationship with Major. Her failed relationship with her brother. Her mother.

Her promising career in medicine. Also a failure.

It's a lot of failures.

It's no wonder the morose expression on her face has Ravi stopping short as soon he steps into the morgue.

"Why do I have this sudden urge to hide all the scalpels and sharp objects?" he asks, frown furrowing his brow.

Liv doesn't even bother to look up, continues to stare at the discoloured, rigor mortis stricken body lying there on the table.

"I wouldn't bother. I'd probably fail at killing myself too."

She can see him shake his head from the corner of her vision, doesn't see the expression on his face though, but can imagine it just as well.

He sighs, stepping into the room, grabbing hold of his lab coat as he does, "I see brain of the week is a real Debbie Downer, haven't had one of those yet."

"Yeah," she says, "She's a real barrel of laughs."

"Hmm yes, we have had an abundance of smiles these last few days, haven't we?"

He's being sarcastic, she knows he is. Reason tells her he's trying to get her to crack a smile of some sort, and really how hard is it?

A lot hard, apparently, because its like her own brain's been overwritten by the brain of Marcia Williams and her motor memory is completely failing her. Cranial nerve VII is malfunctioning horribly and her tear ducts are working over time in it's place.

It's with a complete sense of horror and humiliation that the first tear drop spills over her bottom eyelid and rolls down her cheek.

She's mortified, and can do nothing to stop the self-berating. "I'm sorry," she says, barely stopping the words from coming out in a pitiful wail, "I don't mean to bring you and everyone around me down all the time. I don't know what's wrong with me! And god! Why do I keep crying? There's nothing to even cry about! Pathetic. I'm so freakin' pathetic!"

"Hey now," Ravi says, rushing forward towards her, a look of sheer alarm on his face at the sight of her emotional meltdown. He never did do brilliantly with tears.

Although that's not completely true, a voice chirps up somewhere in the back of her mind. It brings forward memories of another British man, cold night air, a silently mouthed farewell disguised as a confession of love, and the ringing in her ears as a gunshot echoed into the darkness. She remembers breaking down in this very same place as she learned that outrunning her grief was an impossible feat, and it had been Ravi who had wrapped her in his arms then and started the healing process.

He stops in front of her, effectively cutting off her view of the body on the autopsy table, and for that she's grateful.

It's not doing her any good staring at that lifeless face for hours on end.

He has to crouch down to meet her gaze and its a long way down for him. She forgets how tall he is sometimes.

"Hey," he says again, voice firm and unwavering, "You are not pathetic, Olivia Moore. I will not stand for that kind of talk in my workplace."

If he's trying to play the 'I'm the boss' card, he ruins it with his fingers curling around hers, grip tight and so very warm against her deathly cold skin.

"I expect all my employees-"

"Employee. One employee," she interrupts with a sniffle.

"-I expect my _one_ employee to be a beacon of positivity and enthusiasm-"

The sniffles turn into a snort, and Ravi actually looks offended.

It's smart, though. Playing on this week's alter ego's need to overachieve and do well in everything, be it work, study, relationships, just life in general. She thinks it's that ridiculous strive for perfection that endlessly feeds the insecurities, feeds the monster that constantly snarls in her ear and taunts that she's just not good enough.

"Sorry," she mutters, but he's no longer paying attention. His eyes have widened, sparkling bright just as they do when some new, usually insane, idea has popped into his head out of nowhere.

"Sooo," he says, standing up and pulling her to her feet as he does, "New rule. Every time you start to think something bad about yourself, you shout out something you like instead!"

She looks up at him, knows the expression on her face is one of incredulity and reads a lot like _'Seriously?'_

 _Because, what are they? In kindergarten or something?_

"What?" he asks, hands letting go of hers and spreading out wide in front of him, "It's brilliant. You know, I fancied myself a bit of a psychiatrist in med school, but then I realised I actually preferred dissecting brains a little more literally."

She purses her lips, and barely nods out a "Hmm." And then because she can't help herself, "Yeah and the thousands of people suffering with depression thank you for it."

His head snaps back down to her and he narrows his eyes and mutters, "Mean."

"Actually, I'm a rather compassionate individual, I think."

It takes a second for it to sink in. Just what's happened. But then Ravi's shit-eating grin looms over her and she's shaking her head, lips upturned in a smile, "Nicely done, boss. Nicely done."

His hands come up then, cradling her cheeks, thumbs pressing against either side of her mouth as if to hold up her smile.

And it works a treat because that same smile freezes on her face. Not that he notices. No, he's too busy congratulating himself with a self-satisfied smirk of his own, and a cocky, "I like to think so."

She's not sure he realises what it is he's doing. He definitely has no idea that when he steps away, his hands fall too with the slightest caress of his thumbs against her cheeks, and it sends an unexpected spark of warmth through her.

She doesn't get time to think about it too hard though, because he's turning away already, heading straight for the freezers and ordering her about;

"Now get back to work," he says.

She gives him a mock salute behind his back.

He doesn't notice that either, doesn't notice the widening smile.

She thinks back on all her relationships then, and realises.

Maybe she isn't a complete failure after all.

* * *

 **A/N 2:** Oh goodness, the cheese. It stinks. I APOLOGISE.


	2. Case 12079 - Mr Singer-Songwriter

**Case #12079 (or The one with Mr Singer-Songwriter Extraordinaire)**

 **Fandom:** iZombie

 **Rating:** PG-13

 **Pairing:** Liv Moore/Ravi Chakrabarti

 **Summary:** The first few strums of the guitar resonate through the air, and cautiously he thinks, _so far so good._ She can play, at least. That's something.

 **Author's Note:** Fun fact, I started writing this before I saw the promo for 2x04 and had no idea what the episode was about. Anyway, enjoy.

* * *

 **Case #12079, LM**

 **Cause of Death:** Blunt force trauma

* * *

"And this is supposed to help you catch the killer how?"

Liv rolls her eyes and huffs out her reply. It seems a lack of patience for stupid questions is just another trait she's inherited from today's vegetable and brain stir-fry lunch.

"Because, _Ravi_ ," and she completely misses the amused twitch of his lips at her clear frustration as she walks in ahead of him, "Jealousy. It's the number one motive for murder."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure it isn't, but sure I'll play along."

She stops suddenly and he barely stops himself from careening into her. She puts out a hand and rests it on his chest, well stomach, given his height and hers, "No. I've heard you playing, and I'm sorry to break it to you, but you are just not good enough for my band."

Wow. Talk about blunt force.

"That's not-" he stutters, but she's not paying any attention, spinning around again and heading further into the small venue hosting this little contest. He finishes the sentence under his breath, "what I meant . . ."

It seems Luke Miller fancied himself a bit of a singer-songwriter, and talented or not, he wasn't exactly Mr. Popular. Not with that kind of looking-down-his-nose personality.

It's hard not to see why someone had taken his own guitar and hit him over the head with it.

Still, being a dick doesn't excuse murder.

"Liv!" he calls out through cupped hands. She's already twenty steps ahead of him, disappearing into the building crowd, "Liv!"

"What?" she shouts back, turning around with a scowl on her face.

"You're forgetting something!" he yells back.

She looks back at him confused, and he responds only by lifting the guitar case he's been lumped with carrying off his back and holding it up mid-air.

Her lips curve around to form an "Oh."

"Yeah."

She walks back towards him, and simply grabs it off him and turns away without so much as a thank you.

He shakes his head after her, reminds himself, it's not her. It's Luke. And he's a complete arse.

Liv disappears backstage and Ravi finds his spot in the crowd easy enough. Being 6'4" has many advantages, and a clear view over a sea of heads in front of him is definitely one of them.

It's another ten minutes before the lights finally dim and the crowd erupts into claps and cheers as the first act of the evening takes to the stage.

Unsurprisingly, it's a shaggy haired, lanky teenage boy with an acoustic guitar clutched in his hands. As he strums out the first chords of his song, Ravi finds himself wanting nothing more than to be back at home playing Uncharted 4, because this? This is torture.

Sadly, it doesn't get any better. It's one lovelorn teen after another, singing about pretty girls and broken hearts, all vying to be the next James Morrison, Blunt, Bay.

And it's depressing as hell.

He really wishes he could drown himself in alcohol so that it might make the music part way tolerable, but then he has a job to do.

He remembers Liv's words just as they'd left the morgue; "Keep your eyes open for anyone who looks like they want to strangle me with my microphone cord, or you know hang themselves with it because they know they can never be as amazing as me."

To which he'd responded with a "sure thing" and a thumbs up, although the grimace on his face might have told a different story.

Looking around the bar, there isn't anyone in particular that stands out. But then, it's not as if they'd be standing around holding a placard that reads "I murdered Luke Miller". And anyway, he's not the detective in this little zombie-vision-enhanced crime-busting team of theirs. No, that's Clive's job, who just so conveniently had discovered another lead at the eleventh hour, and had with real regret lamented the fact he couldn't be here tonight. "But hey," he'd said, "Ravi would love to go with you and scope the competition for suspects, wouldn't you?"

The "Oh yeah" and accompanying shake of his head had apparently failed to register with Liv, and thus him being dragged along like a roadie.

It's in the middle of his search for a guitar wielding killer that the host for the evening announces the next act.

"And now we have a late entrant, a Miss Olivia Moore, performing an original song."

The audience clap enthusiastically and Ravi finally perks up, head swinging back around to the stage.

She's got her guitar hanging in front of her, the microphone hovering around her forehead and she has to bring it back down to her height. There's a screech of feedback from the microphone as it drops, and the crowd winces along with him.

He can hear his own heart pounding in his ears, nervous for her. He almost can't watch, because what if she sucks? What if she completely bombs? And although Luke Miller might be conceited enough to think he's god's gift to the music industry with whatever comes out of his mouth, it's Liv Moore that'll face the humiliation if it goes tits up.

And so like a coward, he screws his eyes tight, and waits with bated breath.

The first few strums of the guitar resonate through the air, and cautiously he thinks, _so far so good._

She can play, at least.

That's something.

And then she opens her mouth, and _sings._

Eyes closed, singing the unfamiliar words to a song written by a talent that hadn't been given a chance to bloom.

And it's actually not bad. Not bad at all.

The lyrics are a bit too pointed and unsubtle, but they're not making him cringe in embarrassment.

And her voice. It isn't perfect, but she hits all the right notes and he can't help but grin.

The crowd are swaying along and he finds himself joining in, half wanting to shout out to the person standing next to him in a complete meltdown of pride, that that woman on stage is his friend. His best friend, and she's _bloody brilliant._

Not that he plans on telling her that.

Her two and half minutes under the spotlight comes to an end in a flash and as she holds the last note, she's met with applause and cheers. None louder than his own whoops and whistles. Somehow, her eyes find his in the crowd and the beam on her face matches his.

The smiles, however, only last until the competition's over.

She doesn't even place.

Not even third.

She's spitting mad with rage beside him as he walks her home at the end of the night, guitar case slung over his shoulder.

"I mean, come on!" she says, Miller out in full force, "I was a million times better than Gary 'Freckleface' Whatever-the-hell-his-last-name-is!"

He raises a brow, "Freckleface?"

She ignores him and carries on ranting, "He didn't even sing his own song! He sang a cover. _A cover!"_

"You know there is nothing wrong with singing a cover. I mean, Kelly Clarkson, she's done some pretty amazing covers-"

"Kelly Clarkson!" she scoffs in derision, "Of course, you're a Kelly Clarkson fan."

"Hey! That woman can sing. And I happen not to be a music snob unlike _some people._ You know you're setting yourself up to miss out on so much potential brilliance. _"_

She blows out a breath and her shoulders slump, "And no one stuck out to you as a possible suspect?"

He shakes his head, "No. Not one. Although they are all guilty of having _suspect_ taste in music."

"Except, they all loved me."

He cocks his head to the side, and twists his face with a "Well . . ."

"Shut up, admit it. You thought I was amazing."

"I'll admit no such thing."

She grins up at him, and it's automatic, the tug stretching the muscles in his cheeks.

And he thinks 'to hell with it'. Her ego's already inflated, one more compliment won't hurt.

And so he stops in the middle of the road, and Liv spins around to stop in front of him, eyebrows raised and expectant.

But then somewhere along the neuronal pathway from his brain to his mouth, 'were' becomes 'are' and so what he ends up saying is "You're amazing."

The effect is instant, her eyes widen and his own face burns hot and red.

"I mean, you _were_ ," he stammers to correct himself, "Yes. You _were_ amazing."

The smile that spreads on her face then is a hundred percent Liv Moore.

Not a trace of Luke sparkles from her eyes.

It doesn't matter whose brains she's had for breakfast, lunch and dinner, she's still her.

And the "thank you" that leaves her lips as she takes the guitar off his shoulder only proves him right.

He thinks she's brushed his little slip up away, but Liv Moore is merciless and she reminds him of this a long silent minute later.

"Yes I _am_ ," she says with a grin, nudging his side with her shoulder.

He sighs, and admits defeat.

"Yes you _are_."


End file.
